


His

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Series: Broken and Bound [2]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Master/Slave dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4916044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is in being owned that he finally discovers the one thing he wants to possess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His

The first thing his Master gives is his care.

Cook can only watch warily in suspicion the first night Archie acquires him, as the boy diligently cleans his wounds and bandages his sprained limbs.

(The Slave traders didn’t hold back on someone as foul-mouthed and uncontrollable as him.)

It’s not like he can protest, because Slaves aren’t allowed to speak out to their Masters, unless given permission. Besides, this boy intrigues him. He must be pretty damn lonely to sell his most prized possession just to buy the lowliest of the Slaves.

Cook narrows his eyes.  That must be it, then.

For the next few days, he lets the boy nurse him back to health.  When he feels his strength returning, he strips off his clothes and presents himself on the bed, waiting for his Master to do with him as he pleases.

After all, Cook thinks bitterly, this is how things work, doesn’t it?  The Slaves are born into the caste system to serve the Elites, and they have no material possessions, so the only way he can return the (highly dubious) kindness of his master is to willingly give the only possession he has ever owned: his body.  

Cook hears the click of the lock, and braces himself when his Master opens the door.

Archie takes one look at him and blinks.

“Um…” the boy says haltingly, “Why are you on my bed?”

 _Shit_ , Cook panics.  He has forgotten to ask for permission.

He immediately falls to his knees.

“Forgive me Master,” he says, careful to keep his voice small and neutral, as he has been taught.  “You may punish me as you please.”

The boy looks thoroughly confused. “Why would I want to do that?”

Cook has to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying: _Because that’s what you’re born to do._

He stills as he hears his Master approaching, and he bows his head, his limbs automatically tightening in preparation for the blows he’s used to receiving by now.

Instead, his eyes flash open when he feels the exquisite feeling of expensive sheets wrapping around his naked body.  Surprised, he looks up and meets his Master’s gaze—without his permission—and his breath catches at the sight of the most beautiful hazel eyes he has ever seen.

His Master smiles at him softly. “Forgive me, I have not realised how cold it must be in your room.”

And Cook can only stare speechlessly at his Master as the boy settles himself beside him— _on the floor,_ where Cook is still kneeling, and _why is his master lowering himself to his level what is going on—_ and wraps himself in his own blanket.  He leafs through the music sheets he has been carrying, and begins humming along to the notes as he studies them in preparation for his next performance.

After several beats of Cook watching in stoic silence, still on his knees—because he can’t move unless his Master allows it—Archie murmurs: “Forgive me, you must be hurting.  You may sit, if you’d like.”

That’s the second time his _Master_ has asked for forgiveness, and _Cook doesn’t understand him at all._

Slowly, hesitantly, Cook lets himself relax into a sitting position on the floor as he folds his legs beneath him. He lets the music of his Master wash over him as he wraps the blanket tighter around himself.

He has never felt cold since.

 

 

The second thing his Master gives is his respect. 

Cook hadn’t meant for his Master to hear at all.  Archie has been out all morning running his errands, leaving Cook to clean the house by himself—which isn’t much of a task, really, since his Master is the most obsessive neat freak he has ever encountered.

Alone and bored out of his mind with nothing left to do… Cook begins to sing.

His eyes close, remembering the happy times he used to have with his family—before the Slave traders took them all away from each other—and the familiar ache sears across his chest as he wonders about their whereabouts, their well-being… whether or not they are still alive.

He thinks of Adam, and his voice soars.

He hears a stifled gasp behind him, and he whirls around, his voice cracking in a strangled note in the middle of the song.

His Master is watching him with wide eyes, hands clamped over his open mouth.

Cook hastily straightens, wracking his brain to come up with an explanation, an _excuse_ to why he isn’t doing his _job_ as a Slave, but Archie beats him to it when he shakes his head.

“I… I’m sorry,” his Master looks away quickly, “I did not mean to invade your privacy.”

What in the world… whyis his Master always apologising to _him_?  “This is your house, Master,” Cook bows, and this time, the way he humbles himself before Archie isn’t forced.  “It is I who should be apologising for having the audacity to sing when I am not even allowed.”

At this, Archie’s head snaps up. “Don’t ever think that!” his Master cries, and Cook is taken aback at the vehemence in the young boy’s voice. “I… I mean,” Archie stammers, seemingly startled by his own outburst, and Cook can’t help the smile that spreads across his face and the warmth that blossoms in his chest as he thinks:

_He’s adorable._

Archie takes a deep breath and looks at Cook sheepishly from beneath his lashes.  “Please don’t ever think that you’re not allowed to have your own music.” His Master’s mouth quirks self-deprecatingly.  “Heaven knows you must be tired of hearing my voice all the time.”

“ _Never_ ,” Cook catches himself saying fervently, and finds that he means it.

Archie blinks at him in surprise before he shyly averts his gaze, a blush feathering across his cheekbones.

Cook’s heart flutters at the sight. “Would you…” he swallows back the nervous catch in his voice, “Would you like me to sing for you, Master?”

He has never offered this to anyone—hasn’t even considered that it is something he _can_ give—but he realises that apart from his body, this is something that Cook knows is truly, utterly _his._

Archie looks at him for a long moment, his head tilted to one side thoughtfully.  “Only if you want to,” his Master finally says.  “I can tell that your songs are special to you.  Please don’t ever think that it is something you are obligated to give me.”

And Cook can only hold his breath as his Master bestows one of his rare, sincere smiles.  “It is a privilege to listen to you, Cook.  Thank you.”

Archie moves to leave, and Cook snaps out of his daze to call out hesitantly:  “Master?”

Archie looks back at him over his shoulder and waits patiently.  And Cook suddenly realises that his Master understands because… it’s the same for _him._

“It is a privilege to listen to you too,” Cook says softly.  “Thank you.”

 

 

The third thing his Master gives is his attention. 

The first time Cook encounters a visitor coming over at Archie’s place is also the first time Cook learns that he _isn’t_ the first Slave Archie has shown kindness to.

Benton is a young boy with features similar to Archie’s—same olive skin, same brunette hair, same light-coloured eyes—but Cook can’t help but think that it still all pales to the absolute _beauty_ that is his Master.

(Cook knows that perhaps he’s being unfairly biased—and beginning to be unhealthily attached—but he also finds himself not caring at all.)

What Cook finds himself caring about, however, is the way the former Slave practically throws himself at Archie and clings, and the way Archie’s answering laughter melts into Benton’s shoulders as he returns the embrace.

Cook doesn’t like the way his stomach churns at the sight.  It leaves a sour, acidic taste in his mouth, and he feels like he’s going to be sick.

Archie is the first to pull back, and Cook sees Benton relinquish his hold reluctantly.  There is something unbridled and unabashed in the way Benton gazes into his former Master’s eyes—a penetrating look that is a mixture of fondness and longing.

Cook’s feels the knots in his guts further tangling.  The way Benton looks at Archie is… painfully familiar. 

Unable to stomach the sight, Cook retreats into the kitchen just as the two begin talking in hushed voices, their faces flushed and happy, basking in a shared history that Cook isn’t privy to.

It dawns on Cook, all of a sudden, that _this_ is a part of Archie that he will never, ever know—a part of Archie that _Benton_ will always have—and Cook _hates_ it.

Later, after Benton leaves, Archie wanders curiously into the kitchen.  “You’ve been here the whole day,” Archie observes.

“I was washing the dishes, Master,” Cook answers neutrally, gritting his teeth to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. 

“Oh,” Archie frowns as he sits by the table.  “Benton’s a musician now, too,” Archie says, and _why_ is he still talking about _Benton_?  “His freedom has been good for him.  He writes beautiful songs and he has such a beautiful voice.  I love listening to him.”  He looks at Cook hopefully.  “You would have, too, I think.”

 _No, I would have not,_ Cook thinks spitefully, but deflates when he sees the way Archie looks at him.  “Perhaps next time,” Cook amends.

Archie nods quietly as he casts his gaze down at his twiddling fingers.  Cook knows him well enough by now to recognise the signs:  Archie’s _nervous_ about something.  Intrigued, Cook prompts him with:  “Is there anything else you need, Master?”

Cook catches the startled twitch of his Master’s shoulders. Archie takes a deep breath.

“Benton…” Archie hesitates. “Benton would’ve loved listening to you too.  As—” Archie swallows.  “As would I.”

Archie’s cheeks are tainted pink as he bites his lip, and Cook can’t help but stare.

“…You would?” Cook breathes, not daring to acknowledge the way the beating of his heart quickens.

This time, Archie lifts his gaze to meet Cook’s.  “Very much.”

His Master’s features visibly soften, and Cook curls his fingers inside his palms to keep them from _aching_ to touch that _beautiful_ face.

“Always,” Archie whispers.

His heart is hammering so hard against his chest Cook thinks his ribs are going to crack.  Cook makes his way toward the table where his Master is sitting and—after a nod from his Master as a sign of permission—settles into the seat across from Archie.

His Master watches him, seemingly holding his breath, and finally, _finally…_ Cook sings.

 _Hold on, to anything at all_  
_It’s a long way down between the summer and the fall  
_ _If I told you that you’re everything, would you sing along?”_

Cook’s voice gets caught in his throat, suddenly.  He hasn’t meant to, but as he sings it, he finds himself looking straight into his Master’s eyes at the question.

Archie’s eyes widen.  “Cook…”

His Master breathes his name like a prayer, and at that moment, Cook wants to fall to his knees.

_Willingly._

Because Cook finally, _finally_ realises as he sings the question that… he means it.

He means it with every fibre of his being, his soul—

 _His heart_.

 _Would you sing along_?

And as the smile spreads across his Master’s face like the first ray of sunlight breaking through the horizon, like the fresh smell of the earth after the rain—

Like the first glimmer of hope when his Master throws himself in front of the Slave traders to protect him, to _save_ him—

Cook’s heart soars as his Master’s voice joins with his, and Cook vows, right then and there, that he will do anything— _anything at all_ —to keep his Master smiling like that.

 _For me,_ Cook thinks, and doesn’t bother to deny how utterly selfish the thought is.   _Only for me._

For once, he _wants_ to be selfish—to know that this…

_(That smile, those eyes, this voice, this happiness—)_

… This is _his._

 

 


End file.
